Clothing
by Year of the dog
Summary: He was often seen wearing strange clothes.


_This is my first time writing for the Nabari fandom. I really wanted to write this piece, and though I like how it ended up, I'm not sure how well it's done in the whole spectrum of things. Honestly I hope I didn't do a horrible injustice to Miharu. If you're confused by it (which I guess wouldn't be surprising, I'm rather notorious for making vague shorts; and short it is.) it takes place after the ending of the anime. Well, please tell me what you think, even if it is to tell me how bad a job I did portraying the poor boy. I hope you enjoy it anyway though._

Disclaimer: Unfortunately I don't own Nabari no Ou. If I did, it probably wouldn't have been as epic as it really was.

**Clothing**

He was often seen wearing strange clothes.

On most days, when he was released from school, the boy would don a pair of light brown gloves. He wouldn't remove them for anything. When he worked in the restaurant, he would cook with them on. Always careful to never singe them; never let a single thread come to harm on the griddle. The okonomiyaki, the customers noticed, had never been handled with such delicate care. The only times the gloves would come off, was when he bathed, and when he was at school. Those who knew what they signified never gained the nerve to say anything. It would be like picking a scab and watching it bleed until you had to forcibly apply pressure to it.

Eventually the boy began wearing a strange hat as well. Similar in color to the gloves, and far too big for his small head, he continued to wear it as if it were a lifeline. Unknowingly he would reach up and tug the edges of it down over his ears; over his eyes. He would catch himself, clutch fingers into the soft fabric for a moment longer, and then once more lift the hat up slightly. Soon enough this became as natural as wearing the gloves.

Months melded into summer, and what had become an evening habit turned into an all-day custom. With the absence of school to preoccupy his time, he would often wander outside. Most of the time he was found sitting on one of the benches at the station, or laying in the grass at the top of the hill. But there were days when he would disappear for hours, and come home late at night smelling of bamboo, and metal, and rust. Those were the days when he would lock himself in his room and not reemerge until the morning. At first his grandmother would come to see what was wrong, and end up listening to his silent sobbing through the wooden door. She knew the reason, but not the details and thus knew it was not her place to prod and probe. After a while, she ceased her visits to allow her grandson to grieve the only way he knew how.

School started back up, and he returned with the same mindset he had left it. This time though, the gloves were worn even during class. The hat was carried in his bag, and worn when the school bell let them out. This was the only change he allowed anyone to see.

When fall set in and the weather became chilly, he began to wear a black coat. It didn't fit him correctly, and it enveloped his tiny body in too-long sleeves and a trim that reached down to almost his knees. He resumed his visits to the station, and would sit on the bench and hold his knees to his chest. Curling himself into a ball that was so enveloped by black fabric that many didn't recognize him as the boy he was. He didn't seem to mind how disproportionate it was on him. In fact he didn't seem to notice.

A short while after that, it was easy to notice the white turtle neck peeking out from under it.

His disappearances became more frequent, and one day he eventually was gone all night, only to return in the morning on the arm of one his scolding classmates. He apologized for worrying everyone, but seemed far too exhausted to really mean anything. It was these rare times they caught him off-guard that it seemed as if he was as apathetic as the day everything had started.

The scarf was the final article to show up.

Because it was too short to wear correctly, the boy stuffed it inside his shirt. It poked out from his collar, a small piece of white yarn that looked out of place and oh-so lonely. As lonely as the little lost boy who now wore it.

After school, Miharu sat down in the rocking chair -the same one that Yoite had been in when he had finally faded away; vanished before the boy could return to his side- pulled the hat back down over his eyes, and prayed that one day he would be able to think of the older boy without wanting desperately to cry.


End file.
